


the genius next door

by girlypop



Category: Sally Face (Video Games)
Genre: Cool, Drowning, Heartbreak, M/M, THEY AINT STEPBROS IN THIS YOU SICKOS, everyone dies, its 205 am let me have this, its trying its hardest to be angst, regina spektor - Freeform, suicide happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 05:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17860919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlypop/pseuds/girlypop
Summary: some said the local lake had been enchanted, getting high and mumbling german phrases. athiests were praying full of sarcasm, and the genius next door was sleeping, dreaming the antidote was to orgasm.





	the genius next door

 

 

Larry's eyes were dark brown pools edged in blue and purple smudges from lack of sleep due to nights like this. When Sal couldn't sleep because of his nightmares and needed Larry to be there for him. When they'd go to Wendigo Lake and tell stories about the wendigo, watch teenagers swim naked, and get high as they could before passing out on the shore while light waves lapped hungrily at the sand and reedy land that edged it. When the stars were still somewhat visible through light pollution and Larry would try to show Sal the constellations of the night sky, despite many failed attempts in the past.

Until the drownings started. Three teenagers were found in the lake, lifeless and young and  _ dead.  _ Bodies racked up over the days, weeks, months, for no reason. Twelve teenagers, seven adults, and three children under the age of ten had all been found in the lake, foamy and water thick around them. Rumors started at the school and whispers around the town, that the reason was because of a succubus who lured people in to kill them, a siren. Rumor had it the foam was just the aftermath of a night with a beautiful woman, erotic asphyxiation. 

Of course the alcohol and drugs in their system was taken into account, even when seven year old Megan Holmes wandered in, apparently too drunk to even walk. It had to have been the cult or some sick God's version of a metaphor, as the town went on like nothing was happening when the sun went down. Like any night, anyone could wander out to the lake and never wake up, water in their lungs and stomachs and flooding them. The neighbors started their car, the garbage men emptied the dumpsters, kids came to school with new stories and tales about the dream they had. Where they'd wander naked into the lake late at night, the water would be warm and blissful and thick as porridge. Always a tone of fondness, and occasionally someone would just go missing after sharing their stories. Their bodies would probably never turn up, and the lake would stay calm. Local children still played in the water, and by the shore. It was disgusting to Sal.

Until he had the dream himself.

Larry came down into his room, long haired and brown eyed and high as fuck. He'd try to say something in German and grab Sal's wrist, pulling him to the lake. 

Larry was gorgeous and trustworthy, his hair was thick and wavy and long, strands hung in his tan and grey face. Hung in front of those deep, almost black pools, and entwined with the wind as he pulled the blue haired boy onto the shore. Sal brought up the deaths at the lake, and how they needed to leave or be careful. Larry would laugh, a deep and wheezy sound from deep in his stomach, and pull Sal into him and embrace him with warmth. He'd comb his hands through the aqua hair and pull off his prosthetic and look deep into his eyes, or eye if you wanted to be technical. And they'd stand and look at each other, until Larry leaned in and pressed his lips to the others, sending _ electricity pulsing through him  _ and gluing his feet to the ground and freezing his joints and blood and mind in place. It was warm and exactly like it was described in books and movies, soft and gentle before Larry was pulling his shirt off and holding him up by his thighs and pushing him against the side of a tree, the bark rough. And it hurt, but no pain was processed, just felt in dreams. He raised his hands into Larry's hair and kissed him back best he could, pushing his hips against the others like he'd wanted to for years. Like every night spent rutting his pillow and blankets and thinking and dreaming while awake about Larry was the only thing charging him, his hair was standing on end and the water from the lake of death was flooding and rising and hot around his ankles even though he was far from the water. Larry had released his legs and let him stand on his own, and Sal relished the sand on his bare feet as a small blessing while Larry's hands touched everything else. He was a beast and the night was young and foggy and his brain was cotton, his dreams were coming true. 

They pulled away briefly enough for Sal to catch something new. Larry's skin becoming more and more hollow and deep and caved, grey. Tired and lifeless and beat but that was just his imagination. 

"What are we doing?" was answered with a shrug and Larry's lips on his neck, pulling at the skin with his mouth relentlessly. Losing your virginity wasn't cosmic, but losing your dream virginity to your crush of five years while death water boiled and rose to your neck? Was cosmic. When your lover, or maybe still friend, was your oxygen and you were drowning. It was stupid and weird to think about the situation so much, rather than the feeling of him dipping into your pants and grabbing your hips. Of his thumbs pushing your hip bones and rubbing circles while he mumbled things  into your ear, how he'd waited so long for this and how he had to wait for the lake to let him, how stunning and heart stopping Sal was. And how eternal and painful it was when the brunet's thigh was pressed between Sal's, grinding up gently but noticeably. 

"I love you," he took a shot in the dark. And Larry said it back, his voice thick and dripping.

The dream escalated with each inch the water rose around them until Sal was forced to wake up, sweating and unable to breathe and  _ flooded _ with dread. 

"Larry?" The walkie talkie gave no answer. So he padded to his door. The doorknob was hot and burned his hand, but he continued. Down to the basement where the fluorescent and annoying white light penetrated his tired and weary eyes, the sound of himself knocking on Larry's door hurt his head and ears.

No reply. His heart jumped into his throat and pounded around his abdomen, butterflies not needed. A part of him already knew, that his friend was gone. Wading into the lake at the dead if night to a mirage of someone he loved and sound of waves kissing the shore. 

And a part of him was almost relieved when he heard Lisa’s heartbroken crying, she had found out the news after Larry had been missing for two days. A thick and water filled bubble had settled over Sal the minute he knocked on their door days before. 

And during the funeral Sal drank until his head pounded and he couldn't remember the dream. Nothing certain or exact told him to watch out for the lake and not to go near, but a life where you remembered your dead best friend for sucking the life out of you while decomposing was not one anyone wanted to live.

So, he shrugged off Larry's old hoodie and set it in the branches of the tree he'd lost his lips under. He took off his shoes and set them neatly and felt his toes in the sand, and he walked into the water, into someone else's dream.


End file.
